


Just Home

by geekmama



Series: Time of the Season [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-22 03:19:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11371503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geekmama/pseuds/geekmama
Summary: Sherlock’s recovery from his latest bout of drug addiction "for a case" -- the Culverton Smith debacle -- was progressing smoothly. Almosttoosmoothly._____________________Set just before the end ofThe Lying Detective(for the most part).





	Just Home

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 'Home' prompt.
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Molly was finishing up the last of her paperwork when her mobile began to buzz and vibrate a path toward the edge of her desk. She grabbed it and swiped. “John?” 

“Molly, I’ve had to pop ‘round to the surgery, bit of an emergency, and Sherlock’s watching Rosie.” 

Her brows rose. “Is Mrs. Hudson there?” 

“No.” He hesitated, but then went on. “She left early for her Poker night, went to the shops to pick up makings for some exotic drink she wanted to share with the group. Look, you’re headed home soon, aren’t you? I mean… well, your bloody ‘home away from home’, right?” 

Molly smiled, though it had a worried edge. “I can leave now, I think. It’s slow and Mike won’t mind.” 

“That’d be great,” John said, sounding relieved. “Not that Sherlock’s… I mean… it’s going well, of course… but…” 

“I know, John. I’ll leave right now.” 

That mixture of alarm and guilt was all too understandable, she thought as she gathered her things. Sherlock’s recovery from his latest bout of drug addiction _for a case_ \-- the Culverton Smith debacle -- was progressing almost too smoothly. 

The whole thing had also been _for John_ , of course, per Mary’s posthumous instructions -- Molly had seen the DVD and it still made her inclined to spit nails. _Go to hell_ , indeed. She loved Mary, in spite of everything, and John had certainly needed help of some kind. But Mary must have realized how Sherlock would interpret such a message, and that Molly’s heart would again be ripped asunder between anger and love. 

Thankfully, the worst of the physical effects of withdrawal were once again a thing of the past, and in other ways, very _significant_ ways, Sherlock seemed to be a changed man. He seemed both more serious and more lighthearted. More considerate of others, yet strangely negligent of his own _amour-propre._ She smiled as she thought of him as he’d appeared last week, on his birthday, wearing The Hat and a fond smile as he’d walked into the bakery, a bemused John trailing behind. 

Mary’s death, Sherlock’s obvious love for his goddaughter, and his increased awareness of the value of his friends’ faithful support might account for the changes, of course. Yet even so, neither John nor Molly could quite believe it would last. 

They’d been keeping very close watch over him, along with Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade. Mycroft was involved, too, and even his parents, though from a discreet distance.  The seven of them had actually met to strategize when Sherlock was still in hospital (he’d wanted to be released as soon as Smith was arrested, of course, but before he could get too worked up about it, Molly had proposed a transfer to Barts, where she could easily visit him and monitor his care, a suggestion to which he’d deigned to acquiesce with only minimal sulking). Mr. Holmes senior had seemed to have no doubts of his youngest son’s ability to overcome the latest of his “troubles”, but the rest of them hadn’t been so sure, and “Mummy” wished to be kept abreast of any glitch or setback, though she agreed that it wouldn’t do to “badger him”. 

From various sardonic looks and comments, Molly was almost certain that Sherlock was aware not only that they’d all met to confer, but that the four friends who were actually on Sherlock Watch reported regularly to his brother and parents. However, to Molly’s great relief, he never gave any indication that he actually minded their concern. 

A changed man, indeed. 

All these thoughts and memories roiled about in her head as she left Barts and made her way to Baker Street after catching a cab with the strange ease to which she was becoming accustomed (Sherlock’s doing, or Mycroft’s? It hardly mattered, they were both capable of a charmingly old-fashioned chivalry, for their love of her, though she still lived in hope that Sherlock’s love had rather less of the sisterly about it than did his brother’s). 

Her ‘home away from home’, as John had said, and it really seemed like it as the cab rounded the corner and pulled up in front of the familiar facade, just now bathed in the golden light of sunset. 

She’d seen 221B so many times like this, lately, coming here to watch over Sherlock night after night as she had. Sleepless nights, some of them. Restless nights that had seen them prowling the streets of London on long walks (once they’d stopped by the Thames, near the Hungerford Bridge, and he’d gone quiet, looking out over the river, and then at a nearby bench, frowning, until he’d suddenly shaken off the moment, picked up her hand and tucked it in his arm, keeping her close to him all the way back to 221B). And lately, _restful_ nights, as his body and mind had begun to truly heal. 

She let herself into the building and quietly closed the door behind her. Breathed in the familiar scents of old wood and cleaning products (Mrs. Hudson was diligent, her bad hip notwithstanding). Quietly ascended the steps (avoiding the one that creaked, as was her habit). The door to the flat stood open, and she paused at the threshold a moment, looking. 

They were asleep on the sofa. Sherlock at full length on his back, Rosie curled on his chest. One of her tiny hands was gripping the edge of his dressing gown and she was snoring softly. 

Molly’s heart seemed to swell. Tears threatened, and a smile, too. She bit her lip. 

And then Sherlock’s eyes opened, and he did smile, rather sleepily, as he turned his head to see her there. 

He gave a sort of nod, subtly beckoning, and she went to him and crouched beside him. She whispered, “John thought you might need help, but it looks as though you have her well in hand.” 

“Just got her down for a nap a few minutes ago. Come lie with us. A threesome.” His eyes laughed. 

Her brows rose at the remark, but she smirked, too. “All right, I will.” 

She stood, divested herself of her bag, coat, and shoes over by “John’s Chair”, then came back. “Move over a bit.” 

“Climb over to the inside,” he told her. 

She gave a huff of impatience, but with infinite stealth she complied. There was plenty of room, he had only to move a very little toward the edge, and soon Molly was lying beside him, stretched out against the back of the sofa. Rosie roused very slightly, then settled between them. They slept. 

Or Rosie and Molly slept. 

It was months before she learned Sherlock had not, in fact, slept. It was when John was saying to the wedding guests, “I knew when I came back and saw them there that Sherlock was for it, you don’t look that contented, sleep that peacefully, for anything less,” and Sherlock replied, “You’re wrong, as usual, John, I wasn’t asleep, I might have been resting my eyes, occasionally, but most of the time I was watching Molly and wondering how it would be if that baby were _our_ child -- which led me to wondering about _other things_ , of course.” 

“And which other things might those’ve been?” Greg Lestrade piped up, teasing, and then grinning as a tinge of color mounted Sherlock’s cheeks. 

But Molly slipped her white satin-clad arm beneath the pearl grey broadcloth adorning her new husband’s and replied, “Why, he wondered how it would be were this to be just _home_ , of course, rather than my ‘home away from home’.” 

And Sherlock looked down at her with a grateful, crooked smile and said, softly, “Exactly so, my love.” 

 

~.~


End file.
